I Left My Heart At Schloogorgh's
by Serendipity1
Summary: Deep in the greasy, cholesterolladen bowels of Foodcourtia, a romance blossomed. A romance...of DOOM! Partnerfic to Mizander's 'Filthy Stinking LUV'
1. I Coulda' Been An Invader

** I Left My Heart At Schloogorgh's**

**Author's Notes: **This is a partner fic to Mizander's story 'Filthy, Stinking LUV'. And...also to that one chapter of 'Frequency', apparently. I was the poster who wanted a Skoodge romance with an insane stalker OC. I don't remember my reasoning behind that, actually. I think it was mostly that you see a lot of Tallest and Zim romances with really perfect original characters, and that seemed the antithesis of the OC norm. And also, I have to admit...Skoodge is one of my favorite characters.

And to show my love for Mizander, (strictly platonic, of course,) I will now attempt a PARTNER-FIC! Bow to the might of the fic!

I shouldn't have to even say this, but I don't own Invader Zim. Or anything else. Pfft.

* * *

_The battlefield was bloody, body-strewn and austere. Standing amongst the wreckage of what was once a beautiful, flourishing race was a single figure. Short, skinny, and straggly, it pulled itself to its feet, a banner grasped in its gloved hand._

_A voice boomed from the sky. "YOU HAVE CONQUERED THE DISGUSTING, FILTHY SPECIES OF THE PLANET GORSNARCHERAST! WHAT DO YOU THINK?"_

_The lone figure tossed the Irken banner to the side and squinted up at the heavens. "Well.." it started to say, and then glanced to the left at the sound of a low moan from one of the fallen victims. It was almost impossible to tell what the thing looked like through the blood and wounds covering its body. For some inexplicable reason, the creature's head was relatively clear of injuries, save for a particularly deep cut directly above its eye._

"_Help!" the creature rasped painfully, "Oh, GOD it hurts!" It pleadingly reached out one clawlike hand, groaning._

_The figure stared at the writhing alien on the ground before it, and then sighed. There was a flash of metal and light as an equipment arm snapped out of the figure's pak, moving too fast for the eye to see. It stuck something onto the creature and withdrew._

_The dying alien crossed its eyes as it tried to look at the brightly colored band-aid that the arm had stuck on his head._

_And lo, there was a sudden flash of light, an assortment of mechanical beeping and suddenly, everything went pitch black..._

The figure, a female Irken, stared at the black interior of her testing helmet. The words 'Game Over' flashed at her in neon red letters. _Wait. Where'd the planet go? And the voice? And- _

The anvil of realization made a crash landing on her head as she slowly recovered from the effects of the virtual reality program.

Her request to be transferred to Devastis had been accepted, despite her inferior height, and she had been granted the honor to be the very first to take the entrance exam. This day was to be her triumphant arrival into the elite military program! Her shining moment of glory! The day she finally proved her worthiness as a citizen of the proud Irken Empire! And now that she had taken...wait...that was the test?

_Crap. -_

"You FAIL the preliminary military qualification test, on account of improper attitude towards the elimination of an inferior alien species!" announced the control brain, "You will be encoded into Food Services." Wires shot from a compartment behind her and injected themselves into her pak, writing her new employment code into its system.

"What?" she yelped, waving her arms helplessly. "That's not possible!" she added, flying in the face of obvious evidence to the contrary. "I SHALL TRY AGAIN! I promise to try my utmost in-"

"No." replied the control brain, calmly.

"But-" she tried.

"No."

"But-"

"No."

"But-"

"You have been encoded. Congratulations on your new and shiny future in the food servicing business. You will be transported to the planet Foodcourtia to begin your new assignment." The control brain went on, as if she hadn't said a word against his decision. She was really beginning to dislike the control brain. She gave the blinking lights of his Survival Apparatus a defiant glare. Then she winced and cowered.

"But-" she tried one last time, as the wires withdrew from her pak and a metal compartment rose from the floor. Four wire tendrils grabbed her, pulled her into the compartment, and strapped her snugly into a small cushioned chair. She had the time to notice that it was upholstered in something resembling paisley plastic before a cheery voice rang out from the speaker behind her chair.

"Welcome New Food Service Drone. Please refrain from any movement during the shipment process. OR YOUR ANTENNAE WILL BE RIPPED FROM YOUR HEAD! Destination: Foodcourtia." The hatch slammed shut and sealed itself.

"Congratulations." Control Brain said magnanimously, and the metal compartment and its contents were summarily disposed of.

In laymen's terms, she got shipped out in a big metal box.

All in all, she thought grimly as she tried her hardest to stay motionless, it was not a good way to start her week.

* * *

Foodcourtia.

Ah, what could be said about the famous planet of fast food restaurants? How could one possibly capture the essence of such a magnificent place? The truth is: there are no words in any of the spoken languages in the known universe to describe the sheer essence of the wonder that is Foodcourtia.

That didn't stop her from trying to sum up the total experience in three rather vulgar words as her waiting compartment was unloaded with a rough jolt, and the wire 'seatbelts' released their grips on her arms and ankles. A thin, blue line of light traced the outline of the sealed hatch as she glanced woozily all around her, alerting her that someone, presumably a worker at the planet's port, was opening the box with a laser cutter.

In a short while, the cut square of metal dropped to the floor. She squinted at the sudden bright light, catching a glimpse of a uniformed alien of some sort as it moved on to the next waiting compartment, laser tool in hand. The smell of burning grease and meat wafted through the air, and the clamor of the snack-craving masses filled the air. She stared at the port and employment area of Foodcourtia with dread.

And then she realized that this was no way to act.

This sort of behavior was ridiculous. Why should she dread what was most certainly the job best suited to her? Yes, she should be _proud_ of her assigned area of work! Not anyone could be in food service, after all. She began warming up to the idea as she continued that train of thought. In fact, it should be considered an _honor _that her superiors saw fit to entrust her with such an important task as the preparation of food. Not anyone could deep fry snacks, after all, right?

She rose dramatically from her seat and clenched her fist, raising it high in a gesture of triumph and valor. The light from the neon signs illuminated her, creating the world's tackiest halo as she posed there, one hand on her hip.

"During this long voyage to my assigned planet and job," she began, her voice trembling with emotion, "I have thought extensively about the results of my placement test." She leapt from the paisley plastic chair and strode purposefully out of the compartment, stepping over the sizzling metal door. "I thought LONG and HARD! And I have decided that it was fate that placed me here! Yes! This is indeed my intended purpose in life!" She gesticulated wildly at the tangled, greasy, commercial mess that was Foodcourtia.

A small group of freed Food Service Drones gathered around as she spoke. Not out of any interest in what she was saying, really. It was just that it had been a long trip, they were bored, and it looked like something was happening that might need a crowd. Someone began to pass around a container of popcorn.

"It only shows the GLORY of the Irken system!" she shouted, causing a few of the assembled drones to cheer.

"Irken system ROCKS!" yelled one of them.

"YES!" she agreed, "It does indeed rock! To show my appreciation for it, I shall strive mightily to be the best food service drone ever encoded! I shall conquer mounds of grease in the name of our Tallest! I shall wipe dishes cleaner than the surface of the shiny planet Bob! Through hordes of customers..."

The description of whatever she was going to do that was involved with hordes of customers was lost forever as the gloved hand of a guard reached out and grabbed her by the neck of her standard red uniform, cutting her tirade short. "Silence, hideous new food slave!" bellowed the guard.

She was silent. Physical intimidation worked wonders. The small crowd began to edge quietly away, leaving one particularly stupid food service drone behind.

"Silence ROCKS!" he cried cheerfully, nearly spilling his container of popcorn.

Both she and the guard stared at him.

"Well, it _does_." he grumbled.

The guard decided to just ignore him. "Employees of Foodcourtia are not to engage in unnecessary speaking." he continued, now holding her aloft by her collar as he gave her the Glare of Authority.

She dangled. "Really?" she asked apologetically.

"Yes."

"Oh."

An awkward pause stretched out.

"Well, then I look forward to keeping my mouth shut?" she tried. "Sir?"

"You do that." The guard replied darkly, and released his hold on her collar. She fell to the ground with an undignified thump and a cloud of dust.

"Ouch." she muttered, after much consideration. The remaining member of the crowd of Irkens munched a handful of popcorn and nodded in silent agreement. After a few more minutes of laying on the ground, something sunk in. "Waiiit a second," she said, in tones of dawning realization, "Hideous?"

"Yes, you are." Replied a passing alien.

She glared at it,. pulled herself to her feet, and began to dust off her uniform. Maybe she wasn't the most attractive Irken in the universe. Maybe her head was a bit oddly shaped. Maybe her eyes were a particularly dim color red. Maybe her antennae were crooked. But she hardly thought she was _hideous_. Homely, maybe. Or plain. Or-

"Ugly!" shouted a small child, pointing excitedly.

That was it. She drew in a breath to retort, probably with something that would get her punished for unnecessary screaming, and was interrupted by the demanding voice of a vidscreen presenter.

"Newly assigned Food Service Drones," thundered the announcer's voice, "All newly assigned Food Service Drones, please report to the hiring facilities. I repeat, all Food Service Drones report to the hiring facilities. All those who fail to do so will be immediately exploded."

Everyone on the port turned as one to stare at the vidscreen.

"EXPLODED!" roared the announcer with a disturbing amount of excitement. She wasn't willing to bet that he was joking, and scurried toward the direction the other Irkens were headed as fast as she possibly could. Which was she admitted to herself a she headed along with the crowd, was not very fast. She wasn't built for speed. Actually, what she _was_ built for was up for debate. There were an astonishing number of things that she was bad at. She began to list them to herself as she panted, overexerted by only this short run.

Like interdimensional algebraic equations. (Failed it in the general Irken schooling.)

And building equipment. (Everything she built fell apart in a number of days, and most of them ended up looking like something a smeet had assembled with paste and Popsicle sticks.

And creating snacks. (She burned them. Even the ones that weren't meant to be cooked.)

And putting on her boots. Speaking of which, were hers even on the right feet? She glanced down to check and was jostled roughly by one of her fellow Irkens as she stumbled and banged into his shoulder. She mentally added her lack of coordination straight on the list. This was almost fun.

In a sort of...depressing way.

Okay... she was bad at positive mental games. She continued.

Piloting cruisers. (Crashed one into a mailing facility and had to work off the payment for ten years in community service on the planet PetHomia.)

And dancing. (The feet of those she tried to dance with would never again be the same.)

And drinking Vortian Fire Brandy. That particular thought brought memories of her younger self in the Junior Training Academy, when she was a tender fifty years of age. She wondered if they'd cleaned the scorch marks and vomit stains off of the wall yet.

Probably not.

And-

Her train of thought was brutally de-railed as she collided once more with the Irken in front of her. He turned and shot her a glare, and she pressed her antennae flat to her head in apology. It hardly worked, he gave her a disgusted huff and turned around again, muttering something under his breath. She caught the words 'clumsy idiot' and, unsurprisingly, 'ugly.'

She refrained from commenting.

The Hiring Facilities seemed to be made up of a series of a large enclosure, surrounded on all sides by a chain link fence that would have looked much more imposing if it hadn't, like any other wall or fence in Foodcourtia, had been coated with advertisement. Flashy posters were plastered over every available space, some overlapping each other. A few neon signs, blinking and flashing their messages at passing guards and food service drones, were strapped to the fence itself with wires and metal rings.

As she read a few of the signs, (Pizza of The Universe! Blorfies Nachos, Supreme! Low Prices!,) an enormous vidscreen projected from the raised dais in the middle of the enclosure. It flickered the Irken symbol for a few minutes, and then showed the helmeted face of an announcer. He or she smiled benevolently at the assembled crowd.

"Hello, new Food service Drones." The announcer, who was definitely a he, by the sound of it, said. "Today marks the glorious moment of your NEVERENDING toil- er...employment here on the planet Foodcourtia. Here you will be shown to your new employers, the Frylords, and they will proceed to take you to your new workplace!"

A few of the members of the crowd cheered. She thought she heard the familiar voice of...whatever his name was, rising above the noise of the crowd to yell: 'Frylords rock!'

She thought he said 'rock', anyway.

The announcer on the vidscreen held up his hands to call for silence. "Yes, yes." He said, sounding impatient. "All food service drones line up on the dais." There was a pause. "NOW!" he roared.

It sounds impossible for a large crowd to simultaneously coordinate themselves, rush forward as one, and line up all in a matter of seconds. It may sound like something that could never happen. It may strike you that, in the rare and marvelous occasion such an event was pulled off, the lucky and astonishingly talented crowd that achieved the impossible feat should be awarded medals or at least a week of vacation. And all that may very well be true.

Unfortunately, that crowd wasn't the lucky crowd, they didn't coordinate themselves correctly, and many unlucky Irkens were trampled by the boots of those rushing to take their place on the dais.

And of course, she was one of the unlucky ones who found themselves becoming one with the dirt in ways she never thought were possible.

Before she had time to peel herself off the ground, she and her fellow trodden masses were yanked off the ground with big metal claws and thrown in a heap on the dais. As she tried to free herself from the tangle of arms and legs, pushing at what appeared to be somebody else's backside in her face, a tall, thin Irken with a snooty expression picked his way over to the heap of dirty Irkens and pulled out an inkpad and stamp from beneath his uniform.

A few seconds later, she sported a very fashionable 'Discounted' mark in red ink across her forehead. She was given a sign around her neck that read: 'half off wages.'

It must be the alignment of the planets, she thought, as she stood uncomfortably in the 'bargain bin' section. But she hadn't recalled reading any of this in her horoscope that morning.

* * *

Sizz-lor made his way through the crowds outside the Hiring Facilities. It was relatively easy, even on Foodcourtia, for him to get through crowds with little to no obstruction. People generally gave him a wide berth. It was unwise to mess with someone who looked as though he could easily crush your head between thumb and forefinger. To add to that, the expression on his face at the moment was enough to make any sane person keep very carefully away.

Sizz-lor was, to put it mildly, pissed off.

Zim, the new Food Service Drone,( make that slave,) was managing to do all the work assigned to him. That wasn't the problem. The problem was, in doing that work, he'd cause at least ten new problems. It was actually costing him to have Zim working there! To try and make up for that, he assigned Zim the chores that the hired employees wouldn't, he gave him the worst customers, and made him clean the ghastly restroom stall number 13. This worked only marginally, with Zim doing _those_ chores the other employees worked more quickly, but all the resulting disasters of Zim's attempts to clean up or serve customers balanced out the profit he should be making. It was frustrating, to say the least.

Especially since the last time Zim tried to rid the stalls of the toilet monster, he actually flung the thing _out_ of the stalls and into the restaurant, maiming a few customers and killing off one of his staff. The customers were placated with free meal coupons. The staff member, however...

Sizz-lor growled, desperately wanting to pummel something. Preferably something short, green, and stupid. Thanks to him, he had to go out of his way and find some other food service drone to take Gnar's place.

He stopped in front of the enclosure. "Sizz-lor." He grunted. A wire identification cable slithered out of the gate and attached itself to his pak, checking his information before he was let in.

"Frylord Sizz-lor" a mechanical voice announced, "Please take your Hiring Pass." The cable withdrew, and he was handed a plastic card, with a pin to attach to his apron. He stuck it on as quickly as possible, wanting to get this all over with so he could get back to his restaurant. Zim was being left to nearly his own devices once more.

His eye twitched slightly at the thought.

The gate opened and he stepped through, shoving through the crowd of employers until he was standing in front of the platform. There were maybe twenty or so drones left there, twenty-five including the substandard, discounted ones. Those were the ones he was interested in, he didn't need anyone incredibly skilled to make up for the kitchen worker. All they needed to do was push buttons and tend the frying pits. Besides, anyone would be better than Zim.

He chose one at random, a skinny, short little runt of a thing. His posture marked him as subservient, which he approved of. He didn't need any insubordinance. "You!" he barked, stabbing a finger in his direction. Everyone else instinctively stepped back a pace. The targeted drone stared at the finger as if it was dangerous, and then looked up timidly, his antennae quivering with fear.

"Y-yes, sir?" he asked.

"How good are you at pushing buttons?"

"Um...I push buttons quite well sir."

"Excellent. You're hired." He grabbed the drone by the head, lifting him clear off the platform. "We'll discuss your wages later. There's about to be a catastrophe at Schloogorgh's." Sizz-lor, clutching his new employee tightly, began shoving his way through the crowd once more

The drone grunted as he was banged into a few of the bystanders too stupid to get out of Sizz-lor's way, his legs dangling in the air as he was carried off. "But- I- okay." He said meekly.

"What was that?" Sizz-lor roared at him.

"Um...Oh! Yes, of course, my Frylord!" he squeaked.

Satisfied, Sizz-lor hauled his new kitchen worker through the crowd.

A few minutes later, he spoke up again. "Um...my Frylord, how do you know there's going to be a 'catastrophe'?"

"You'll see soon enough." Sizz-lor muttered darkly. "With Zim without proper supervision, something terrible always happens."

And as if on cue, someone started screaming.

* * *

-Of course, in actuality, she didn't say 'crap'. She uttered a particularly venomous Irken swear word which is unpronounceable in inferior Earth languages, and actually refers to the digestive processes of a winged creature on the far-off planet of Bleeblop.

-Yes, Even on Irk, they had Popsicles. Of course, the range of flavors was vastly different. Nacho flavoring in green-colored ice was the most popular variety. /size


	2. RoboZim

**I Left My Heart At Schloogorgh's**

**Author's Note: **Skoodge will show up soon enough, don't worry. I couldn't very well leave out the second main character, could I? The first couple chapters are going to be basically 'setting up' the plotline and establishing the OC. The romance will be forthcoming.

* * *

Zim tightened a few bolts on his incredibly ingenious new invention. He'd dismantled one of the Vort dog processors and a spare cash register he'd found in storage, but the brave sacrifices of the courageous and MIGHTY machines would not be in vain. They were instrumental in his latest, admittedly BRILLIANT scheme.

Sometimes he frightened himself with the majesty of his expansive brilliance.

Meh. Or something. He fitted the iron surface of his latest invention with a few buttons, painstakingly wiring them in with a tiny pair of pliers he'd taken from one of his fellow employees. Not that Zim thought of them as such, of course. He was here on vacation, and they really _were _inferior food service drones. Bleh. Why the Tallest and that Control Brain had been thinking when they decided that Zim was to be sent here for a break was beyond even ZIM'S superior understanding.

'_In fact'_, he thought as he fiddled with an errant wire, _'I wouldn't be surprised to hear that the Control Brain was a MALFUNCTIONING reject of an Irken.'_ He'd be sure to inform the Tallest of that when he returned from this place.

Urgh...this..._place._

Zim's hands clenched into fists as he reflected upon the days he had spent here. The days he spent dripping with the filthy, disgusting remnants of customer's meals, waiting the tables of ingrate intergalactic scum, battling that HIDEOUS toilet monster...this was _no_ sort of vacation for ZIM! No, indeed, Zim deserved rest and relaxation and mass destruction of random passerby for it to even begin to resemble a pleasant break. He obviously had no time for that here, with the assignments this Frylord gave him...HIM! Invader Zim! Wielder of death and destruction! A mighty soldier of revolting vengeance and doom! How DARE he be scheduled such drudgery on his VACATION?

And so, Zim had devised an ingenious scheme. A plan that would boggle the minds of all who heard of it. A plan that involved great wisdom, mechanical skill, and yes, even genius.

MWAHAHAHAHA!

Anyway.

Zim had decided that since this restaurant _obviously_ required his admittedly brilliant skills, and therefore would not settle for a second-rate replacement, should he decide to leave for more relaxing pursuits, he should obviously give them a worker with all the mighty skills of ZIM. Such a worker was, of course, impossible to find because there was no one on this or any other planet in the universe as talented and excellent and altogether superior as Zim. NO ONE! Therefore, the only logical conclusion was this: they needed ANOTHER Zim. The plan was remarkable.

There was only one problem. There wasn't another Zim.

And so, Zim realized what he must do. He must BUILD another Zim! Someone just as brilliant, just as amazing, someone with _all_ of Zim's _extraordinary_ skills. Clearly, this would require much effort. He spent one entire hour sketching the preliminary blueprints. Then he temporarily converted the cash register into a web-scanner and hacked into the system of the company that created the equipment in the restaurant to see which machines held the parts he needed. Finally, he stole a few cans of paint from the storage room to make finishing touches, because there was no point in making a robotic clone of oneself if said clone wasn't incredibly awesome to look at.

He finished tightening the bolts and stepped back to look upon his creation. His creation stared back at him with vacant, mismatching eyes. They'd been made from two buttons from the Vort dog processor. The result was disturbing. One eye was much larger than the other, and the smaller eye had 'On' painted on it in white Irken lettering.

"My creation!" he roared at it. "Welcome to LIFE!"

RoboZim stared back at Zim with mechanical intensity.

"You have been brought forth on this DISGUSTING planet to aid me in my mission to obtain relaxation!"

RoboZim said exactly nothing.

"It is a great and noble purpose indeed! Do you not feel excited at the very prospect?"

"..."

Zim went on this thread for at least twenty minutes, detailing the Plan in all it's brilliance, before he noticed the distinct lack of conversation. He paused, glared beadily at the motionless Zim-droid, and tapped his foot impatiently. "WELL?"

More silence greeted him.

"Oh, that's just GREAT!" Zim said, throwing his hands up in disgust. "I spent IMMEASURABLE amounts of my time making this piece of TRASH and now it doesn't work! How dare you defy the mighty command of ZIM, inferior yet Zim-like piece of mechanical garbage?" Zim lashed out by kicking impotently at the RoboZim. His foot caught the 'on' button on the robot's side, causing the thing to spasm and light up like a Christmas tree.

'Oh." Zim said, watching RoboZim go through system initiation. "It wasn't plugged in. Eh, I KNEW THAT!"

RoboZim shuddered convulsively, its bright, mismatching button eyes lighting on and off. It uttered a low, monotonous beeping sound, and then finally fell silent. Just when Zim thought that the machine was a dud, it's eyes lit up to a dull red and it began to speak in a dull monotone. "RoboZim systems activate." it said, staring dully ahead.

"Yes!" Zim cheered happily to himself.

"RoboZim processing memory and personality data." it continued. "RoboZim personality download time: ten...nine...eight..." The eyes lit up brighter and something in its head began to spark. "Seven...six...five...fourthreetwoonezero!" It screamed, sparking profusely. Its eyes flared a brilliant red for one moment, and then dulled back down.

"RoboZim!" Zim cried happily. "Welcome to life!"

RoboZim turned his head sharply and stared. "YOU!" it demanded. "Who are you?"

"Huh?" Zim asked, momentarily taken aback.

RoboZim pointed dramatically and asked once more. "Who are you?"

"Huh?"

"WHO ARE YOU?"

"I am ZIM!"

"Who?"

"ZIM!"

"WHO?"

"ZIM!"

"IMPOSSIBLE! I am Zim!"

Zim laughed in dawning comprehension. "The system! The personality system I have made! Of course, it is so perfect that this robot believes it is ME! This proves my greatness, for only a genius would be able to create such a realistic and convincing replica of a personality..." he trailed off, noticing that RoboZim was no longer standing in front of him. "...Hey, where'd it go?" he scratched his head in confusion.

The lilting, musical sounds of smashing glass were heard from the dining area, and a crazed scream echoed through the restaurant. Zim blinked in incomprehension. More screams rang out, this time from the terrified patrons.

"Puny, insignificant filth! I, INVADER ZIM will conquer this establishment! I will bring my fiery DOOM upon your tiny HEADS!"

Zim ran out of the kitchen and hopped over the counter. The scene that met his eyes was one of total carnage. It was actually quite impressive, or it would have been if he didn't know that Sizz-lor would be arriving shortly. The giant Irken was downright terrifying when he was angry. That was the only reason Zim continued his drudgery at the restaurant.

RoboZim, however, had no such qualms.

"Pitiful creatures of meat and other such things!" it yelled, grabbing a customer by the head and throwing him into a wall. "ZIM shall be victorious!"

"My Vort dog!" screamed a customer in despair, "You squished my Vort dog! What kind of SICK BASTARD squishes an innocent Vort dog?"

"Silence!" RoboZim demanded, pointing commandingly at him, apparently not noticing that the customer was at least four feet taller than him and had horns and fangs. "Do not question the tactics of ZIM!"

"YOU, be silent, imposter!" Zim yelled, striding over from the counter, looking very authoritative and cool. Or at least he _thought_ he did. In reality, he looked slightly deranged.

"How dare you call me an imposter?" said RoboZim, the very picture of righteous indignation.

"I dare!" Zim bellowed; now face-to-metal face with RoboZim. "I created you, and I can take you down! You will go along with your programming meekly, or I shall eliminate you!"

"What programming? Oh, you mean the bizarre and pointless list of tasks to do? I overrode them. They completely conflicted with _my _plan to control the world."

Zim stared in consternation. This was not a part of the plan. It was downright annoying. His creation seemed to have a mind of its own, with plans of its own. Plans that happened to coincide with Zim's plans, actually. There was only one logical conclusion, only one solution to this.

Destruction! Mwahahaha!

"Prepare!" Zim roared, clenching his fists in anticipation of the life-shaking battle that was to come. "Prepare yourself for the wrath of ZIM!" This battle would be the hardest he had yet to face. This battle would pit him against a creation with the exact personality as his. This battle-

The door slammed open and RoboZim was anticlimactically and rather embarrassingly crushed beneath the metal-plated boot of Sizz-lor.

"ZIM!" the infuriated Frylord roared, pitching the Irken he'd been holding on the floor. "What were you DOING?"

"I-"

"NO! Never mind. I don't want to know whatever it was you thought you were doing. I'm going to punish you for it anyway." He picked up the broken RoboZim and glared at it as well. "Especially because THIS seems to be made out of one of our machines." He gave Zim a venomous glare and tossed the robot at him. It smashed into his face, knocking him to the ground with a heavy 'clump'. "You'll spend the rest of the day cleaning this mess!" Sizz-lor yelled, jabbing an enormous finger at the shambles of the restaurant. 'You will clean it until it is sparkling, and THEN you will clean every bathroom stall! When you are finished with THAT, you will fix the machines you took apart for that THING!"

Zim mumbled something.

"WHAT WAS THAT?"

"Yes, my Frylord!" Zim shouted, jolting to an upright position.

"Very good. Now GO!"

Zim scurried off, grumbling angrily to himself about the things he would do to Sizz-lor, once the Tallest found out how he was being treated on this crummy vacation. Halfway across the room, he slipped on a puddle of soda, much to the amusement of the last remaining customers.

"Look, mama!" yelled a kid, pointing, "He fell down!"

"That horrible kid." Zim muttered, staring at the ceiling.

* * *

Her first impression of the restaurant she was to work at was indeed a hard and painful one. The first thing she saw was the floor rising rather unpoetically up to meet her as she was flung aside by her new employer. Then she quite understandably lost consciousness for a few moments and snapped out of it just as her Frylord picked her up once more and held her out for the inspection of her new co-workers.

'This is the new member of the staff!" Sizz-lor barked. "He will be taking the place of Gnar in the frying pits."

The mass of goggled Irkens stared at her.

"I expect one of you to make sure he learns to man the register and do the rest of the tasks." Sizz-lor continued, oblivious to the fact that his new employee's antennae were twitching in barely suppressed irritation at being referred to a male.

This was just...irritating. She tried to be patient, tried to be polite and docile. But couldn't people keep her gender straight at least? That wasn't much to ask for! She was...feminine. And well, she had the curled antennae at least. They may be a bit crooked, but they were curled, a definite sign of femaleness. And, well, her eyes were shaped...well, she had...and then...she was female, darn it! It had been a long day. She carefully cleared her throat.

Sizz-lor continued to inform the rest of the staff about her duties, their duties, and the fact that Zim would never again be trusted to be alone.

"My...Frylord?" she tried timidly.

"What?" he asked, looking peeved at being interrupted.

"I'm...actually female, sir." She said quietly.

"I can't hear you! SPEAK UP!"

"I'm FEMALE, sir!" she said, a little too loudly. That got a reaction. Every goggled face turned to stare at her. Their mouths dropped open. Sizz-lor moved her closer into his line of view for examination, his expression nearly identical to those on the food service drones' Zim paused in his wiping of the counter to join in the general astonishment. Then they all burst into simultaneous hysterical laughter; and she felt quite ready to kill something for the first time in her life.

Sizz-lor wiped a tear from his eye with his free hand. "That was a good one, drone! We can use a positive attitude like yours in this place!"

"I...wasn't joking, my Frylord." She said, still maintaining her polite tone through clenched teeth. "I'm a female."

Once more, a group stare. Sizz-lor actually brought her right up to his face this time and gaped in disbelief at her curled antennae "You ARE female." He said in a mixture of disgust and fascination. 'But you're so UGLY!" The rest of the employees gasped on cue.

"Thank you, sir." she said, closing her eyes in exasperation. Something inside her screamed. It was either her dignity or her femininity. Or both in chorus.

"...Anyway!" Sizz-lor said, dropping her unceremoniously for the second time that day. "Get hi- _her_ in uniform! AND GET WORKING!" That said, he turned and thumped over to a room in the back, leaving her in the hands of the rest of the staff. Someone shoved a huge hat on her, strapped on an apron with a regurgitating clip, and stuck some goggles on her.

Then she was shoved over to the frying pit. '_Welcome to Schloogorgh's' _she thought glumly, and pressed the button for frying pit operation.


	3. I Can Feel The Sarcasm In This Room

**I Left My Heart At Schloogorgh's**

_(From a journal entry of Explorer Zent, of the Irken Exploration Team.)_

_  
The moon of planet Irk Two in the Irken Galaxy Triad has little life existing on it, and no interesting natural landmarks to set it apart from the more superior planets of the Triad. However, inhabiting the frozen regions of the south and north poles, as well as the lunar Ice Wasteland, are a species of tiny creatures. They an exist in almost any climate, from extreme heat to icy cold temperatures, but show a marked preference to polar weather. When deep-fried, these creatures taste delicious, although they tend to squirm a bit on the way down._

* * *

She was quite ready to kill Explorer Zent. 

Well, not _kill_, obviously. He had, without a doubt, been an important and great member of Irken society, and was responsible for many great discoveries. A lowly, yet content food service drone like herself had no right to even think such vile, traitorous thoughts about one of her superiors.

One of the more hyper Yummy Nuggets jumped up from the grease, hitting her in the face. The rest of them seemed to decide that this was a new game, and followed suit. She glared at them and whacked them with her spatula. "Stay UNDER!" she demanded, getting a squirt of hot grease in her eye for her troubles, making her go through a wild, complicated dance of pain.

Oh, _yes_. Explorer Zent was not on her list of favorite people.

When she finished her writhing and cursing, she became aware that she had an audience. Great, just great. She just had to choose a time to act like a moron when there were people watching. Trying to piece together her dignity, she turned to face her three fellow workers, sans Zim. A few minutes passed. One of the Yummy Nuggets preformed an acrobatic aerial maneuver.

She had gathered enough courage to open her mouth, when the employee in the middle let out an impatient sigh. "_Well_?" he asked archly.

"Well, what?" she said, confused. This must have been the first time anyone here aside from the Frylord deigned to speak to her, so they couldn't have asked her for something? Could they? She was answered with another sigh.

"Your name, dolt. You _have_ read the Employee Protocol, haven't you? We're supposed to have a small meeting to 'welcome in the new member of the staff'."

"What about the restaurant?"

"It's under repair. I don't think it will be open for customers for a long while, so we have plenty of time. Don't think this is my idea, either. I'd much rather be doing inventory with Terg." He crossed him arms and tapped his foot impatiently. "I can see you _haven't_ bothered to do your reading. We'll start with you telling us your name."

"It's-"

"Yes, wonderful." he said, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "Don't get the impression that anyone is interested. Now, of course, is my turn to introduce myself and my lovely fellow employees."

His facial expressions were hard to make out with the enormous goggles blocking his eyes from view, and the hat covering his antennae, but she had no doubt that he was wearing a very sardonic expression. Which somehow irritated her. A lot.

Not that he noticed, of course. "My name is Gaschloogh. This," and he gestured at a slightly shorter Irken with decidedly plump cheeks, "Is my delicious little coworker, Terg." Terg let out a disturbing little giggle and she stared in dazed shock as he blushed dark green. "Specimen A here," Gaschloogh nodded at the huge lump of an Irken standing behind him, "Is Lars. Say hello, Lars, my verbally challenged friend."

Lars grunted. The sound seemed to encompass a variety of different sentiments. Many of them were frightening.

"Lars doesn't work the register too much." Gaschloogh explained. "He frightens the customers, and he can't say 'Welcome to Sclooghorgh's' unless someone stands behind him and says it so he can mouth the words. Frylord most likely hired him for grunt work." He elbowed Lars." "Isn't that right."

Lars belched.

"I…well, okay…" she said vaguely.

"I love what you've done with the place, by the way. Giant wall-to-wall grease stains are so _in_." he seemed to be looking at the wall behind her, which had gotten splashed several times. "And the floor. Well, nothing says 'I'm a quality Vat Room' like-"

"Grease and pieces of Yummy Nuggets on the floor?" she replied tersely, then winced. "Sorry." she added with a slight growl. "I've been having some…problems."

"Really? _Really_?"

"The Yummy Nuggets keep moving." she said, rather stupidly. As if to illustrate her point, one surfaced the seas of grease, did a flip, and landed on the spatula.

Gaschloogh was obviously talented in the Art of Jerkiness. One could tell that he was rolling his eyes even though it was impossible to see them. "Mmhm." He said, in mock sympathy. "Poor smeet. I can see why you're in food service."

'So are you." she snapped, finding it nearly impossible to be polite.

Terg cleared his throat. "Now, Schloogie, you're supposed to play nice with the new ones. If the Frylord found out that you were responsible for the emotional breakdown of a coworker, you'd be punished." Terg's usually docile expression transformed into one of malicious glee. "And you know that I'm the only one allowed to do that."

"Oh, dear. You're quite right of course." Gaschloogh replied, looking chastened.

She felt her left eye twitching and was glad for the goggles. _Schloogie?_

Lars grunted again.

"Does he actually talk at any time?" she asked.

"Why, of _course_ he talks. Lars knows at least fifty words and phrases, and uses them whenever necessary. We're trying to train him to say 'Schloogorgh! The Flavor Monster!' whenever his stomach is poked, but it's to no avail. Such a shame, too. It would be so much fun for the kiddies."

She glanced dubiously up at the slopes of Mt. Lars and highly doubted that any sane child would get anywhere near Lars, even if it appeared that he was having a good day. "Oh. That's nice." she said. "Um, where's the other one?" she added, in a desperate ploy to change the subject.

"Other what? Other Lars? We're very blessed with the fact that there is only one of him."

"Well, the Frylord tends to act like him sometimes." Terg said.

"True." Gaschloogh nodded.

"No, I meant the other employee. The one that caused all the mess earlier today." she added, unable to keep the disdain from her tone. Why on Irk was the Frylord even bothering to keep such a useless defect of an employee?

Terg and Gaschloogh snickered in unison. "Oh, _that's _the 'mighty' Irken Invader Zim." Gaschloogh said, sounding highly amused about it.

Her eyes widened and she glanced at the closed door, as if she could see Zim through it. He was _that_ Zim? The runt of an Invader that had single-handedly ruined Operation Impending Doom One? The incompetent fool who'd almost destroyed their whole planet? That bumbling idiot out there was…well, _that _bumbling idiot?

"No way." she said, still goggling at the door.

"Oh, he'll make sure you have no doubts about who he is if you ever decide to talk to him. Actually, it would be vice-versa, since Zim usually talks, sorry, rants at you, even if you've made it perfectly clear that you want nothing to do with him." Gaschloogh sounded extremely annoyed as he added that last part. It seemed that he was also a victim of Zim's annoying ranting. The thought made her smile, as she tried to picture the haughty Irken being harangued by someone so much shorter than himself.

"And he's _clueless_ as well." added Terg, "Can you believe that he thinks it's his vacation? He goes around talking about how he can't wait until the Tallest decide to take him off break, and how he'd rather not spend his precious vacation time here, but the Control Brain _insisted_ and all…" he snorted derisively.

"He's hopeless at his work, too. It's supposed to be punishment for him, but it's more of a punishment for the Frylord and us." Gaschloogh said. "He actually killed Gnar. Not that he was much help, anyway. And he always wore those terrible squeaky boots. Squeak squeak squeak, everywhere he went. Enough to drive someone crazy."

"He made a mean mooshminky, though." Terg said.

"Terg, he didn't 'make' the mooshminkies. He just pressed the button and the mooshminky batter came out."

"Um…right. Right, of course. It's just that they tasted so much better when he pressed the button."

She joined Gaschloogh in giving Terg a funny look. Lars grunted. It was hard to tell if he meant it in support of Terg's comment, as a form of a disbelieving snort, or, most likely, an indication that he was hungry.

"Riiight." Gaschloogh drawled, still eying Terg. "Anyway, Zim should have the words 'Hazardous Material' tattooed across that empty little head of his. He's completely useless as anything but a menial worker. Sorry, slave." he added with a smirk. "Frylord just stuck him with all the dirty work, which I am quite happy about. No one wants to clean Stall Thirteen, after all."

_I'm going to be sorry if I ask this. I am going to be very sorry. _"What's in Stall Thirteen?"

They glanced at her. "Oh," Terg said, "You'll find out soon enough."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Yes, I know. It was short. sobs 


	4. Escape of The Toilet Monster!

**I Left My Heart At Schloogorgh's**

**Author's Note:** Well, here's Skoodge at last. Applaud, Skoodge fans! APPLAUD!

* * *

_Planet 0165, Halfway Galaxy_

The tiny timekeeper inset on the Training wristband beeped urgently, informing him that he had only twenty minutes left for his assignment for the day. Skoodge heroically refrained from cursing under his breath and carefully dragged the prone body of his test subject towards the base.

The occupants of the tiny planet he'd been assigned to as his final test were shrunken, reptilian things, built for a grueling life among the scorching deserts that made up almost all of this horrible floating rock. Finding one had been sufficiently challenging, as their skin color, a gritty khaki-grey, perfectly blended into the sand and dead grasses of the landscape. _Catching_ one had been even harder. It wasn't that they moved quickly so much as they moved erratically. They darted quickly in random directions, making it hard to estimate where to aim the capture net.

Finally he'd managed to catch one of the younger ones and knock it quietly and efficiently out with a blast of knock-out spray. Fortunately, the creatures weren't very heavy. They were literally a framework of muscles over bone, nearly no body fat at all. He wouldn't call this thing light as a feather, but it was no heavier than some of the weights he'd been trained with. He lugged it over to the sheer cliff face that was his base, pressed his hand to a section of the jagged rock, and quickly stepped through the hologram wall. The door slid silently shut behind him, and he dropped the creature to the floor with a heavy thud.

"Computer." He said, and was answered by a momentary flashing of light from the buttons on the control panel before he continued. "Test subject retrieved."

A scanning ray ran across the length of his new subject's body, and then a series of thin cables extended from the walls and lifted the prone body of the creature, placing it into a cylindrical tank for future use. As the tank filled with fluid, the computer began to play a joyful rendition of the Irken Anthem. Clouds of confetti filled the air. "Congratulations!" the computer voice chimed dutifully. "You have successfully retrieved a test subject from the native population of…Planet 0165…in the time limit specified. This concludes all minor assignments."

Skoodge beamed happily. The plan he had for the conquest of this planet was simple, and would only take two more days to get ready. If all went well, that left him…one more month's worth of the time limit sent for the test! That _had _to be a record! There was no way they could deny him a position of Invader.

He danced happily in place for a few minutes, hissing 'Yes!' and 'Woohoo!' at random intervals. Then a small clump of confetti tripped him up and brought the party mood to a crashing halt as Skoodge skidded on the floor and landed with a resounding thump against the far wall of his base. There was a shocked gargling sound and a muffled scampering as a creature sitting outside the faux cliff wall skittered away in fear.

Time held it's breath.

He stayed perfectly still and activated his sensors for any sign of enemy activity beyond the walls of the base. He'd decided that the creatures weren't intelligent enough to pose a great threat, but still…Invader protocol and all. He'd dutifully memorized the book, actually.

When enough time had passed to determine that the natives weren't joining an army to rid their planet of the enemy threat, Skoodge relaxed against the wall and released a huge sigh. He had no time for any more clumsiness. Conquer first. _Then _party.

Yeah….

Right.

He had to remember that.

* * *

There was a sort of routine to cleaning restrooms. She stood there with mop and bucket in hand, staring at the labels on each carefully numbered door. Apparently, each bathroom stall was designed for the excretory systems of a different Allied race. There were two stalls for each race, one for the male and one for the female. It was boggling. The restrooms took up at least half the back of the restaurant.

And then there was Stall Thirteen. The other employees spoke of it with a mixture of dread and awful respect. Well, at least Gaschloogh and Terg did. Lars rarely said anything coherent, and Zim babbled a maniacal stream of verbal diarrhea. He had said something about cleaning Stall Thirteen once, though. She'd managed to sort through the screaming and ranting to make out something about a 'vile nemesis of FILTH!'.

_So…it's really dirty?_

She stared at it. Well, it wasn't her problem. She was only supposed to clean the hallway here, and then move on to the staff room. Since the restaurant was still in the midst of repair work, the Frylord had ordered the staff to clean the entire place until it sparkled. He'd said many other things, but nothing she'd really care to repeat. He was in a particularly foul mood. Not that she blamed him, though. Anyone with Zim working for them had to be incredibly patient.

That notion was given dubious thought.

Well, maybe not patient. Dealing with Zim and keeping one's sanity intact required patience, but the Frylord obviously did not see fit to exercise that quality. Certainly he had his reasons.

Good reasons.

Superior reasons that he of course did not need to share with anyone, especially not his employees who were all very much shorter and more insignificant than himself.

Mmhm.

Where was that cleaning solution?

She extended different holding mechanisms from her PAK Ah, right. There.

The stuff looked extremely suspicious. It was a vivid fuchsia, and seemed to emanate a kind of dull light. The Frylord apparently bought tanks of it off a ship of traveling merchants that passed around every other Foodening. Terg assured her that, despite its odd color and highly toxic smell, it could clean galactic slug mucus off of the walls. He hadn't any slug mucus for a sample cleaning, but she decided to take him at his word. Nothing that smelled this bad could do anything but burn through substances. That seemed to equate cleaning fluid. And besides, she'd seen him use the sprayable version on some tentacle fungi that had been growing out by the dumpsters.

It had been impressive. One minute there'd been a clump of extremely lively, waving purple tentacles, the next minute, there hadn't been a speck of dust to mark where the pest had once been. Astonishing.

She dumped a cupful of the stuff into her bucket, stirred with the mop, and started swabbing at the floor. Steam rose from the puddles. _Let's see…_ Lars was sitting, statuelike, near the door. He was serving bouncer duty today. Anyone who appeared to be coming near the door would be thrust away with all the strength that he could muster. Or, as Gaschloogh had so eloquently put it as he gave Lars his assignment: 'Person come. You crush. You big Irken. Ugh.' So far, Lars was performing admirably. Although it might just be necessary to inform him to take care with the walls. There were splatter marks, and that wouldn't attract any customers tomorrow.

Gaschloogh and Terg were off…somewhere. Wherever the food closet was. They'd mentioned inventory, but a great deal of what they'd said seemed to imply something else. She was still confused about the comment about the Vort dogs. And anyway, they'd just ordered another shipment of foodstuffs. They wouldn't be getting those in any time soon. Unless, of course, they'd meant…oooh. OH. Or did they? Surely they wouldn't-

_Oh._

Well, yes. Right. Wow. That was something not to think about.

She desperately turned her thoughts to Zim. Where was that annoying little bug, anyway? She hadn't seen him around since he'd been assigned cleaning duty. Hmph. Typical. He was most likely trying to shirk his duties.

TALLEST, this stuff stank like…like incredibly smelly things of a terrible nature. And was it really supposed to smoke like that? A few ineffective scrubs of the mop spread the smoking puddles even more. The floor underneath them seemed…clean enough. In the same way a patch of skin looked clean after being scrubbed by a steel wool pad. It looked like a small portion of the actual floor had been scraped off by the stuff. Maybe she'd added too much. She gazed dubiously at the slightly burned surface of the now too-clean floor.

Oh…well. At least it was clean, right? No grease-stains or suspicious brown stains that might possibly be dirt but would usually be better not to think about identifying. And it smelled…well, it smelled chemical, but that was better than how it smelled before.

…

A job well done! Yes!

She emptied the bucket into the alley outside the restaurant, killing off a variety of molds and effectively sanitizing a large portion of the pavement as the foamy, grey liquid sizzled it's way across, burning small pieces of trash on it's way. Come to think of it, the stuff really reminded her of a sort of soft drink they sold. It had to be kept in special containers, since it burned through most any surface. Except, surprisingly, for a certain plant-based plastic. What was the name of that stuff again? 'Lurg' or 'Larf' or…something with an 'L'.

The empty bucket and mop went back into the storage closet, and she made her way down to the staff room. Hopefully, she'd find Zim there and would be able to send him off to actually do his job with little trouble. And if she was really lucky, he wouldn't rant for too long. Come to think of it, he'd been awfully quiet this morning. Comparatively, anyway. He hadn't been screaming at random passerby, he hadn't been yelling his grievances to the appliances. Really, all he'd engaged in was a brief bout of maniacal laughter.

Of course, that had been quite enough. But Zim being quiet for this long was almost frightening.

* * *

He'd DONE it.

Well, of _course_ he'd done it. It was only a matter of time before he'd thought up something this ingenious, after all. That filthy…IMPUDENT excuse for a toilet monster would RUE the day he…or…she…meh.

Whatever it's gender was, it would RUE the day it had ever slunk of from the bowels of the toilet, (Heh, bowels), to mess with the plans of INVADER ZIM! Yes, for he had constructed a machine of deadly precision and UNSTOPPABLE vengeance! This machine was so deadly, it would have hardened SOLDIERS pleading and begging for his mercy! AHAHAHAHA! MWAHAHAHA! OHOHOHOHO!

"Shut up!" roared the Frylord from the other room, interrupting his evil glee. "If you have the time to laugh manically, you have the time to CLEAN! Get moving!"

"Oh, _yes_." he said under his breath. "I will…get moving. OH, the movements I shall make! They will ASTOUND YOU with their brilliance!" That said, he gripped his mighty Tool of Glorious Retribution, and headed valiantly towards the restroom facilities.

A few moments later, there was a large gurgling noise followed by a great sucking sound as Zim's machine of death did it's work.

Then an ear-splitting yell.

Followed by a series of wet squelches.

Anyone listening would have certainly formed the opinion that Something Bad Had Happened.

* * *

And…there was the yelling again. At least that was proof he was still alive and in the building. Too bad he seemed to yelling from the _opposite side_ of it, and that meant more walking! She sighed in irritation and stepped through the doorway of the staffroom. She'd already taken the time to get here, and she would…she didn't know, do something. Get a drink from the cooler and head back to wherever Zim was, maybe.

A series of small pools of dirty water made her frown. "Alright, who made the mess?" she asked aloud, not really expecting an answer. A low grunt from the chair in front of her made her leap back in surprise. "Oh, it's you, Lars. " No one else she knew grunted like that. "Well, tell Terg…well, obviously you can't, sorry. Okay, I'll tell Terg to bring the mop- YARGH!"

She'd been walking steadily around the chair as she spoke, and noticed something was firmly, definitely, undeniably WRONG. To start off with, this wasn't Lars. It wasn't big enough. And it was brown. And lumpy. And dirty. And dripping. And holding a humorously shaped loofah, for some reason.

The thing opened its gaping maw of a mouth and lunged towards her, tossing the loofah aside.

In the split second before her nearly-certain demise, she remembered the name of that stupid corrosive soft drink. "RIGHT!" she yelled, shocking the thing in front of her enough to make it stop mid-leap. "LARD! It was LARD!"

The thing blinked at her in confusion.

"That stuff we sell!" she said jubilantly, resisting the urge to reach across and shake the thing in her bizarre fit of joy. "That disgusting soft drink that tastes like acid and can burn a hole through the floor! LARD! I remembered! Oh…" she added, remembering her current position. "Oh, yes, right. I should be leaving now."

The thing lunged again, but she ducked under it and rolled, hiding behind the other end of the chair. The creature was faster than it looked. Where the heck had it come from? Was it one of the customers? If it was, Lars was going to be in enormous trouble for not doing something to keep it from entering the building. Then again, it didn't seem like a Vort dog or nachos kind of person.

The thing's head shot out from behind the back of the seat and she screeched and propelled herself backwards. No, this was more of an 'Irken head with fries' kind of person. She zoomed over to the end of the staffroom and seized the first loose object she could grab. "Don't come any closer!" she shrieked, wielding it threateningly at the monster. It didn't seem impressed.

"I'm warning you! I have a…a vidscreen remote control and I'm NOT AFRAID TO USE IT!" She desperately pressed a few buttons at random as the thing steadily approached. The vidscreen flickered to life and began to play the news. "Th-there! Eat boring announcer voice, you extraterrestrial scum!"

It gave her a look that seemed to say: 'I've eaten boring _announcers_ in my lifetime', and lunged.

A few minutes passed, and her impending doomed failed to impend. She opened an eye and stared at the face dangling inches from her own. And then up. And up.

The Frylord was gripping the creature by the midsection. And he looked Really. Pissed. Off.

"Ooooh _no_." he growled. "I am NOT going to any more hiring fairs and leaving Zim and the restaurant without proper supervision. There will be NO eating of employees while I'm around." That said, he hurled the thing out the staffroom. It crashed into the wall outside, whimpered, and yipped it's way down the hall. "ZIM!" roared the Frylord, wheeling around and stomping out of the staffroom. "I know you're behind this! And where's my spatula?"

She had the sudden urge to sit down. Quickly.

The sound of the boring announcer droned into her consciousness. Something about new Invaders passing the tests and being raised to glorious military heights. Well, good for…Spleen, Tim, and…Skoodge?

What kind of a name was Skoodge?


	5. Enter Love Interest

**I Left My Heart At Schloogorgh's**

* * *

The asteroid garment of Vort was a beautiful sight. 

From _inside_ the planet, anyway. It was named the asteroid _garment_ because it surrounded the planet like a form-fitting body suit, making it ridiculously difficult for ships to get through. From outside the planet, the thing was a nuisance, and one that was inclined to cause quite a few tragic accidents. The Vortians tended to become very snippy if anyone decided to clear a hole through the asteroids, too. One would think, with such an obstacle, the planet would not be getting too many tourists.

On the contrary, Vort was one of the most highly sought-after vacation spots. Not for the planet itself, which was rather dull and seemed to be done in varying shades of moss, grey, and dusky brown. Not for the three small oceans, which were filled with a hazy green liquid that smelled suspiciously of cabbage. And especially not for the weather, which was certainly very nice if you liked a perpetual sixty degree temperature, accompanied by random bursts of precipitation. Not _rain_, exactly, but small pieces of frozen rock and ice would shower from the sky in extremely painful storms. Vortian Storm Stands would offer a wide arrangement of thick plastic over coats and helmets for such an occasion. In three designer colors: pink, chartreuse, and a rather muddy green.

Not a very hospitable planet. However, what really drove the masses of intergalactic tourists was not the climate, the friendly people, or even the wide selection of indigenous cookery. (Something lumpy and vaguely cheese-like was considered haute cuisine. No one bothered to find out what was in it.) No, the reason that the planet Vort was stuck in a permanent night from all the spaceships gathered around it was because of one small thing.

Well, not so small.

Comparatively small, you might say.

Definitely smaller than a number of famous oceans.

Incidentally, the one on planet Vecturia was said to be the best.

Anyway. The main tourist attraction was one fairly large, elaborately upholstered couch. It had been created using all the new comfort technology, had been equipped with flexi-gel cushions, lined with self-warming fibers, and equipped with a handy change collector that slid out from the bottom of the couch, making it easy to collect lost monies. It was indeed a splendid piece of furniture to behold. Yes, this was the Universe's Most Comfortable Couch.

Usually, the place was horrendously booked.

Fortunately for the new graduates of the Invader Academy, the Irken Empire had been all too willing to pull a few strings in order to secure the place for their initiation ceremony. The other tourists had been gathered up and placed in a containment unit, and were told very politely that they would be released at a later date, when the ceremony was over. Then they were each given packages of peanuts and left alone. The Vortian government had been understandably upset by the dip in their economy, however brief it was, but were easily intimidated into silence by a few convenient, bulky guards. Yes, everything was set perfectly in place.

The couch had been taken out and placed upon the enormous, streamered dais with care. The crowds of Irken elite looked…well, bored, mostly. But it was a sort of cheerful boredom. If you can call plastic smiles cheerful, anyway. Even the Control Brain in charge of the initiation seemed to be marginally happy, as far as one could tell with Control Brains, anyway.

Skoodge felt sick.

Really, terribly, physically ill.

It probably hadn't been the nachos. Well, it probably hadn't been _mostly_ the nachos. Or even the fact that Spleen had elbowed him in the stomach minutes after he'd eaten the awful things. Were those nachos? They looked and tasted awfully suspicious…

In any case. Something about the enormous crowd was making him feel awfully nervous. He adjusted his new uniform, which he'd managed to stain after only a couple hours of wearing it. He maintained that it wasn't his fault that the punch fountain had decided to go berserk and spray him down. Or that the mini Vort dogs in a pastry shell tended to fall apart very easily.

So, there he was, ready to receive his Invader PAK upgrade, in front of hundreds of his fellow soldiers, and a few assorted groups of Vortians and some bizarre, three-winged race that no one ever bothered to find out about, covered in punch stains and crumbs of food, his smile feeling more pasted on by the minute.

He absentmindedly brushed a few crumbs from his uniform, flinging a few onto the outfits of Spleen and Tim. They gave him a chilly look of utter disdain. Like the ones so often seen on the faces of the few librarians employed on Devastis's information center. The look of anal snobs around the universe. Skoodge gave them both an apologetic grin, and then turned ahead as the Control Brain signaled that he was beginning the initiation speech.

"Brave, Irken soldiers…" the Brain began.

"Irken soldiers ROCK!" yelled someone in the crowd. An awkward silence descended.

"…Yes." The Brain continued irritably, a bit upset that the mood had been totally lost, "Brave, Irken soldiers. Today marks the glorious ascent of three dedicated soldiers into the proud ranks of the Invaders. Their efforts will be handsomely rewarded today! Please applaud."

The crowd complied.

"Yes, very good. I'm sure that we are all awed by this wonderful achievement. So! Send them up to get their PAK upgrade."

One of the guards flanking the Control Brain leaned over and whispered something.

"What?" the Control Brain asked, "Oh. Right. Yes, of course. And bring along the free t-shirts and duffle bags while you're at it." This was a new idea from the current Tallest, who had decided that the idea of getting free, useless, tacky junk was actually a very strong motivating factor. Therefore, all soldiers received a button and poster when they passed their tests, and all Invaders got free t-shirts with the Invader logo, free duffle bags with the same, and a hand puppet. The hand puppet was mostly Tallest Purple's idea, actually. He claimed that it was a necessary tool for any Invader.

Skoodge really didn't want to think about the implications of that.

"Invader SPLEEN!" bellowed the announcer. Spleen adjusted his uniform with a self-important air, and scuttled off to receive his upgrade. The crowd cheered incoherently.

"So…" Skoodge said awkwardly.

"Shut up." said Tim.

"I just wanted to point out..."

"Shut up."

"I..." Skoodge continued desperately.

"No." said Tim. "I will have no silly attempts at conversation in a sad attempt at last-minute bonding between two fellow Invaders. I don't like you much, Skoodge. I find you stupid. And short. I was the one who poured syrup in your shoes."

"That was YOU?" gasped Skoodge.

"Yes. That was me."

"It took me three DAYS to get those things clean!"

"I know."

"I squelched around for three days! My feet smelled sugary!"

"Oh, I know."

"You're so mean!"

"Yes, I am. So don't talk to me."

Skoodge complied for about three seconds. Then a thought occurred to him.

"So…when I woke up, hogtied and suspended from the ceiling…?"

"Right."

"And…my uniform?"

"Zee took it."

Before Skoodge could react to that, the Control Brain finished the data transfer for Spleen and called for Invader Tim to kindly come to the dais.

"Finally." muttered Tim, and made his way to the platform.

Skoodge didn't reply. He was still busy processing the information. He was still pondering over it as he made his clumsy way to the dais. He continued to ponder as the Control Brain hooked up to his PAK and upgraded his data, along with giving him access codes to several well-known hang-outs and certain rooms aboard the Massive. He didn't even take time to wonder about the access code to something called the Champagne Room.

A few minutes later, he sat in his Voot Cruiser, a couch-shaped air freshener dangling on a lever, and a few assorted snack packages crumpled around the seat.

"What…_really_ Zee?" he asked.

"Probably not." said his downloaded personality. "She doesn't seem the type."

"I wasn't talking to you."

"Well, you were talking to yourself, and I'm technically you. I mean…me. The existential implications of this are rather worrying, don't you think?"

"Yes, they really- Hey! Shut up and run this thing!"

A loud sniffle. "That wasn't very nice."

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry.'

"I'm just doing my job, you know. You hate me because I'm FAT, don't you?"

"Now, that's not true- Hey! I'm not fat…I mean, you're not...is there any way a spaceship can be fat?"

"They definitely put too much of a curve on my sides. They're all bloated."

"That may be true. I should look into that."

"Oh, could you? That would be such a relief."

Skoodge took a moment to realize that he was carrying on a conversation with his Voot Cruiser. This was serious.

'I'm an Invader, you know." He said, as if it was a legitimate reply.

"Really? Wow!"

"With a sock puppet and everything." He added in a somewhat defensive tone.

"That's unusual."

'You think so too? I was wondering about that. Not that Almighty Tallest Purple didn't have EXTREMELY good reasons to include it!" he added quickly. "It must be REALLY important."

"…For what?"

"…Well." Skoodge lapsed into silence. "For something. Something official. With, you know, Invader stuff and all that. Why am I talking to you again?"

"Don't ask me. I'm artificial intelligence." That seemed to explain everything.

Skoodge subsided into thought. The conversation with what was technically himself was, while interesting, distinctly unsatisfying, as he wanted to brag. Well, not 'brag' exactly. Well, alright. He wanted to talk to someone about how he was an INVADER, and he wanted that person to be duly impressed. The thing was, Skoodge was hideously unpopular.

He could never really figure out why.

In any case, the only person he could really consider something closer than an 'acquaintance' was Zim. And he was supposed to be in exile somewhere. And anyway, every time Skoodge attempted conversation, Zim would usually ramble something incomprehensible at him. Last time it had been something about…what was it? Ah, yes. Pigs. And how they were disgusting and filthy and had no right to take over his diner.

Whatever it was, anyway.

Zim mystified Skoodge with his randomness.

But he _was _available. And since he was an _Invader_ now, Skoodge had the authority to take him off of work for a few minutes…

And Zim would definitely want to know about Skoodge being an Invader.

Yup.

Right?

Of course he would.

"Hey!" Skoodge said, causing a few lights to flicker in alarm as the Voot Cruiser's personality was shocked out of it's own pleasant stand by mode.

'What? Lasers? Is it lasers?"

"No, no lasers. I want you to tell me the location of In- er…Food Service Drone Zim."

"Oookay! Let's see…ah, here we go. Food Service Drone Zim: stationed in Foodcourtia. Status: Exile and overall failure."

"Uh…yes. Definitely Zim. Which restaurant is he working at?"

"Schloogorgh's."

"Show the coordinates." A map flickered into view in front of him. "Excellent! Onward! To Schloogorgh's!"

"Can I have fries?"

"No."

* * *

"Are there any questions?" Sizz-lor asked, looming threateningly above the heads of the assorted employees. It was the end of the first employee meeting of the month. Fortunately, everything had gone as smoothly as it could have, given that Zim tended to ask questions about a swimming pool and Lars would sniff people at random intervals.

It was a new and disturbing experience for her. Especially the sniffing. That was weird.

She watched the unfolding discussion.

"Can..."

"NO, Zim. I've gone over this. You WON'T be getting a swimming pool of nacho cheese dip, a robot death monkey, a battleship, or any kind of laser while I still draw BREATH! Now sit down and SHUT UP and let the employees ask their questions!"

"But I WANT one."

"That's irrelevant!"

"You're a TERRIBLE resort owner."

"For the LAST time, Zim. This is not a resort! It's a RESTAURANT! You are in EXILE! You're a SLAVE! You. Are. Not. Relaxing!"

"That's EXACTLY what I'm complaining about!"

"I say we give Zim his lasers." Gaschloogh muttered from the other end of the table, just loud enough to be heard. "I think it would be a wonderful idea. Take the lasers, stuff them in a mooshminky, and shove them down his throat. If anything, it would be a great way to cheer up the customers."

Terg snickered.

"I HEARD that, you inferior food service drones! Be silent before the quivering wrath of ZIM!"

"I've seen better." Gaschloogh said, yawning.

"YOU DARE TO MOCK THE FIERY VENGEANCE OF ZIM!"

"SHUT UP!" roared Sizz-lor. "Are there any questions or not? We have FIVE MINUTES until we re-open, and if I have ANY unhappy customers, I will be VERY upset!"

"Yes, I have a question, my Frylord." Terg said brightly. "Who's in charge of the grease vats?"

"Huh? Oh, right." Sizz-lor rummaged around under the table and drew out a crumpled piece of paper. "Lars! You're in charge of the register today!"

Lars blinked.

"Do you understand? The re-gis-ter!"

"Oh, allow me, my Frylord. He understands me, you know. We have a connection. I speak his language. Lars?"

Lars focused his attention onto Gaschloogh. It was painful to watch. She could see the brain cells sparking in tension.

"You" Gaschloogh pointed, "Go there." He pointed at the register. "Lars go. See Lars go. Lars goes to funny box."

"Funny box." Lars echoed.

"Goood. Lars press buttons."

"Buttons."

"Right. Understand?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good Lars. I think I have a piece of candy here somewhere…here you go."

"Isn't it wonderful?" Terg beamed in mock-pride. "Yet another intellectual breakthrough. I'm so proud."

Sizz-lor coughed and decided to pass over that matter entirely. "Terg, you're on cleaning duty. Gaschloogh, you and…and…YOU!"

She snapped out of the daze she'd been in while watching. "Uh…yes, my Frylord?"

"You, whatever-your name is!"

"It's..."

"That's not important right now! YOU and Gaschloogh are in charge of the grease pits!"

"Oh, okay…"

"And YOU, Zim! You're working in the kitchen!"

"Yes, my Fryyyylord."

"Was that sarcasm?" Sizz-lor made a threatening gesture with his spatula.

"No, my Frylord!"

"Excellent."

"My Frylord!" Gaschloogh shouted, waving his hand eagerly. "The new employee has just requested to switch stations with Terg!"

"I wha-" she began, and was cut off by a vicious under-the-table kick by Gaschloogh, who appeared completely innocent. She blinked in confusion.

"What?" asked Sizz-lor.

"You see, she feels the need to expand beyond her grease pit skills, in order to become a better employee and serve her Frylord in the best way she can. I personally find that very commendable."

"So do I." agreed Terg, smiling benevolently.

"Touching, really." Gaschloogh drawled.

"Yes, it makes me want to work harder at my work." said Terg.

"She's an inspiration to us all." said Gaschloogh, nodding in agreement.

"Thank you." she said flatly, resigned to whatever fate it was she was doomed to.

"Okay!" snapped Sizz-lor, "But if you mess up in any way, shape, or form, I will devise a torment so…tormenting that you will wish you'd have stayed in the grease pits! NOW! Everyone to their stations! Work starts in ten seconds!" He stormed out of the room, presumably towards his office. Which was, bizarrely, a mini grease pit. Apparently, the Frylord enjoyed cooking as a hobby. Or else he found some sadistic pleasure in watching the Tasty Nuggets fry.

"Well, you heard the Frylord. Off to work!" Gaschloogh skipped, yes, SKIPPED off towards the grease pits.

"But…" she started, dazed by the bizarre image of Gaschloogh skipping happily.

"Cleanup is easy." Terg interrupted, shoving a mop into her hands. "Just mop up anything that the customers happen to spill on the floor, pick up food trash, yadda yadda, etc, etc. Good luck. Watch out for the Lard puddles."

"But…"

"TERG, dear! There's a VORT DOG ready to be GREASED!"

"Coming, Schloogie! In more ways than one!"

"Uh…"

"Look, it's really very simple. Clean up the mess, don't annoy the customers, and please refrain from killing those annoying little children. And Zim. Try not to listen to ANYTHING he says."

"I"

"Bye." And with those less than reassuring words, Terg turned and, thank the Tallest, RAN out of the room. If he had skipped, she probably would have suffered a PAK system failure and passed out.

"So…no swimming pool?"

"NO, Zim. There will be NO swimming pool." she replied, turning and stalking towards the front of the restaurant to do her job.

* * *

Actually, cleanup wasn't really _too_ bad.

Well, yes it was messy. And the garbage tended to cling to her uniform. And then she'd have to mop up the fluid from her vomiting clip.

Why did they make these vomiting clips, anyway? They were extremely messy and gross and only succeeded in disgusting a few customers and making little puddles of dubious-looking goo all over the floor.

Goo that she had to mop up along with the spilled drinks, shakes, and other liquid garbage that oozed its way onto the floor of Schloogorgh's. And then there were the children. OH, those annoying, messy, NOISY little brats!

No, she would stay calm. She was IRKEN! She was superior. She was distinctly above snapping and ridding the universe of all messy children.

But it was tempting.

_Oh_, so very tempting. Especially when a whole mob of the little worms formed a small army and pelted her with Tasty Nuggets and cheese sauce. And then, would you believe it, the disgusting things waited until she had finished cleaning up every speck of their trash from the floor, and THEN! Then they struck! They struck like…like…like an extremely fast and vicious striking thing! They launched themselves at her and smeared TACO MEAT on her HEAD! All the capitalized words and exclamation marks in the known universe couldn't accurately convey the anger and frustration she felt.

Well…possibly they could.

But then it would look extremely stupid.

In any case, she was one disgruntled food service drone.

It didn't help that Zim and Lars had switched stations sometime around lunch hour. Now she had Zim's infernal screeching to listen to as she mopped up a puddle of Lard. It seemed to be eating the mop.

That was most disheartening.

In fact, it seemed as though things could only get much, much worse.

Then a Voot Cruiser landed outside.

This, in itself, was an ordinary occurrence. Vehicles of every sort routinely parked themselves outside the restaurant at any given time. Usually they did it with more grace, though. This Voot Cruiser landed with a loud, metallic scraping and a muffled crash. Not the best entrance and certainly not a romantic one.

Then, the hatch door lifted and the occupant of the Cruiser stepped out.

Irkens don't have popular romantic notions. Romance itself is looked down upon in Irken culture and usually ignored or treated as some sort of infectious disease. Obviously, there were some couplings, but those were kept as private as possible.

If she had been a typical Earth teenager, here is what she would have expected from the encounter:

On such an occasion, one would expect an intangible aura of dreamy romance. Where the landscape got poetic and the birds sang gently, and the New Love descended from his…well, his Voot Cruiser, and lo! He was indeed gorgeous to behold. He would then say something highly romantic.

In her sad little reality, fat, ugly, Invader Skoodge fell out of his Voot Cruiser, brushed off his hopelessly stained uniform, looked around, and said: 'I'm here."

This, however, was more than enough.

You see, when Irkens got an obsession, they got one in a split second. They didn't mess about. The love hit her like a sack of lead anvils to the heart. And Invader Skoodge was immediately the new Love of Her Life. Her idol. Her hero. Her every fantasy.

He. Was. Gorgeous.

Not that he seemed to noticed. He walked down the aisle and immediately began talking to Zim, who began to act excitably. Well…more than usual. This went on for a while, until the customers behind her new Object of Unsurpassed Desire began to complain loudly. Her God ordered something and went to wait.

As he trundled into a booth, she ran over to the counter, knocking down a few customers as she did so, and nearly throttled Zim in her excitement. "Zim!" she hissed loudly, upsetting a tray of sodas as she knelt on the counter. "Who was that dream boat?" she gave his collar a shake in emphasis.

Zim actually looked shocked. In fact, he was absolutely silent.

She was in no mood to enjoy it. "You know…" she added, shaking him as she went on, "That GOD in a little red Invader uniform! WITH THE STAINS! OH, SUCH SEXY STAINS!"

There was a short moment of silence.

Then Zim broke into wild, hysterical laughter.

She was not in the mood for THAT, either. "I'm NOT kidding around, ZIM." She growled angrily, "I mean…he's DIVINE! His eyes…his eyes are like MUTANT CHERRIES! And…" she gestured wildly, trying to put his astonishingly gorgeous looks into words, "And his adorable, paunchy GUT!"

Zim was still in hysterics, and therefore useless. She dropped him on the counter and turned.

Her new Divine Being had apparently been disturbed by the goings-on, and was now backing slowly towards the exit. This would not do. Not at all! She MUST prove her undying love!

"Come back, little Sizzly!" she shrieked, completely unaware of the crowd that had gathered, "I'll put on the Happy Schloogorgh costume JUST FOR YOU!" And without a second thought, she leapt from the counter and propelled herself straight at him.

All her meager, skinny Irken weight hit her True Love with enough force to knock him off his feet.

She quickly latched on to his head. "My LOVE!" she shrieked, "I adore you! You are like a single, perfectly fried Tasty Nugget, and I want to dip you in nacho cheese sauce and lick it all off! Do you FEEL my affection for you? It is epic!" She tugged at his uniform. "I must have you!"

This was not quite right. She was aware of some of the subtleties of things like this, and she felt as though she was missing something extremely important.

Ah, yes. The rendezvous MUST take place in a small, secluded area.

Desperately, she yanked him up, hooked a skinny arm around his neck, and dragged him to the bathroom. "Now, my love!" she cried, hoping that this was a decent place to commence…well, 'activities', "Let's free ourselves of the constrictions of our clothing!"

She grabbed the edge of his uniform and lowered her voice to what she hoped was a purr. (In actuality, it was more of a creepy, hoarse whisper.) "What are you hiding under there? I bet you have a MIGHTY VORT DOG under there…"

* * *

Up to that point, Skoodge had been in a daze of shock and horror. This frightening…_thing _that sounded female but looked gender-neutral had been acting so quickly and so ODDLY, he didn't have enough time to fully process the bizarreness of it all.

But _this_.

WHOA.

He was totally not ready for this. And in a bathroom, no less.

He let out a strangled choking sound.

"What? What is it?" the THING asked, pausing mid- whatever it was she was trying to do down there. Wait, she? Well…yes. Definitely female. He didn't know what it was, but something told him that this THING was a-

The utter horror struck him.

It was like the syrup in his shoes.

Only worse.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" he screamed, and bolted out of there, not even bothering to check if the THING was behind him or not. Even Invader training was safer than this.

* * *

**Author's Note: **And there is only pain. I can't believe this chapter is eleven pages long. I'm going to soak my head in ice. Okay, most of Nameless OC's love-stricken babbly is Mizander's doing. You can read it in her fanfic: 'Filthy, Stinking LUV'. Yes, this is shameless plugging. Woot!

Oh, and as another edit: I refer to the Invader Zee seen in the show, not to the _fanfic_ Inver Zee. Look on The Scary Monkey Show website.


End file.
